


Enjolras and Fat Louis

by theangrywarlock



Series: Series of Remarkably Stupid Events [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, I guess this is humorous?, Song Parody, a semi-new series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 09:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theangrywarlock/pseuds/theangrywarlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every so often, I get ideas. Silly ideas mainly. Ideas that I could make into lengthy fics if I had the brainpower and care to do so. Inevitably, something along the way gets lost. I lose focus or inspiration. Or something else inspires me. I don't abandon the idea, but I never actually sit down to write it because I don't want to write a lengthy epic fic. Thus, this series is born.<br/>It'll be composed of a bunch of stupid ideas that aren't always connected with one another. Les Amis doing silly foolish things tends to be the focus. I don't take them seriously. At all. If you're looking for something with more historical background and accuracy, go elsewhere. This is just me having fun, and sometimes poking fun, at/with Les Amis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enjolras and Fat Louis

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't look for anything in this series to actually make sense. Some of it is just utterly random gibberish. This is where I put things that don't really belong anywhere. There's some mockery within the fics, some of tropes, some of memes, some of my own works. Essentially, it's bookverse with a few modern twists.

How she longed for the days centering around the demise of the ancien régime! She had been in the same profession as she was currently; selling bread to the peons and miscreants of Paris. Those days had been filled with strife but vast entertainment. She thought fondly back on the riots. When the good people would rise up and pillage a shop, paying the clerk a tidy sum that they thought the items were worth. It was such a polite method of looting.

Nowadays, there was none of that fun to be had. What riots there were broke out over people who preached in the street. They were far from her shop, and they tended to result in arrests and not lack of lives. No, for the death count, there was cholera.

Boring, really. She had survived through plagues before, and while cholera was particularly fast in comparison, it was also very messy.

So what was a bread-selling witch to do?

Sell bread.

She had thought, at first, to play a few tricks upon the populace to convince them to purchase her wares in droves. She dismissed the idea since the lack of funds going around wouldn't really be a boon to her.

Droves wouldn't be much now. There'd be people lining up to spend their one lousy franc at her shop. The bourgeois went elsewhere for their bread. Probably to some fancy, shmancy bread bakery that had its Going-Out-Of-Business One-Day-Sale-Only going on for five weeks now. Far be it from her to starve due to the monetary lack of her typical clientele. If they were having a bad week to a bad lifetime, why should she be the one to suffer?

Not to mention the tax hikes! How was she to make a profit?

Her only customers were starting to become two young men. One was a blond and one a redhead with a worker's cap covering most of his hair. They would talk to one another about her wares and about the prices under their breath.

As though she couldn't hear them compare and contrast.

At one point, she was ready to loudly proclaim that the baker down the shop stuffs his biscuits with rocks and that there was something very fishy about that meat bun seller along the way, but she kept quiet. Were it not for them purchasing some bread after their usual conversation, she would have no qualms about raising hell.

Really now.

Two young men talking about bread prices as though it was comparable to, say, a woman's bosom. In her estimation, the men needed a better hobby.

Her plight was getting a bit dire as the days wore on, and there seemed to be a lack of an end to the damnable tax rate.

It was time to take her business to the king himself!

Of course, one does not simply walk into the Palais. She was too poor to demand an appointment and too female to be taken seriously. Thus, she had to rely upon the ancient art of witchcraft.

Such a shame that wolfsbane wasn't on sale that weekend. She had to supplement it with pinecones instead. The spell wasn't perfect, but it would have to do. If the king wanted better results, he really had to learn how to manage his money better.

Or maybe that well-dressed bloke who came into her store today should have purchased a damned muffin.

She didn't pack her muffins with rocks, thank you very much. They were Integrity muffins. Only the best for her customers.

Teleporting into the king's throne room proved to be a bit difficult. She hadn't sought out an audience with a king since the Norse. The room didn't reek of dead meat, there was no blood upon the walls, and Louis-Philippe lacked a lengthy beard, an axe as large as his body, and his laughter was more wheezy than deep and guttural.

She felt almost disappointed.

"What is this? What is this woman doing here?" He demanded.

"Oh, Citizen King, the tales of your exploits are known wide and far! How you rendered asunder the legions of the horde, how you broke your finest sword upon the head of the Gauls, how you carved your name out of the blood of the people of Normandy!" She fell to one knee, one arm outstretched dramatically. "I remember days gone by when you would give a grand Bloody Eagle to the usurper of your throne!"

King Louis-Philippe was now a very confused man. "Guards!"

"If you could but lower the tax rates on bread, I would be happy to sever the head of your enemies for you!"

That got his attention. "There will be no lowering of the taxes. I don't know what you're on about, young lady, but you are clearly out of your mind. Guards!"

Apparently non-Viking kings were more difficult to please than Viking kings. Or she was just very much out of date with her compliments. In any case, she wasn't about to be taken down by a slew of National Guardsmen. Throwing her arms upwards, the wind obeyed her command perhaps a bit too eagerly.

The Guardsmen were picked up into the air and tossed so harshly into the wall that they left splatter stains of blood where they were crushed.

Pretending that had been her intention, the witch lowered her arms. "How dare you dismiss me! Know this, Citizen King! I sought to give you one chance to make things right! You have denied me due to my status and your greed!"

"I did no such thing! I denied you because you're mad!"

Her flow was a little broken now. In retaliation, she gifted the king with a mighty scowl. "Your punishment will be as such!"

Louis-Philippe, having seen what she did to his guards, had now taken to hiding behind his throne. "You're going to turn me into a hideous beast and give me a dying flower to keep locked away until I can find true love?"

Once again, her groove was thrown off. "What? No."

The Citizen King was now steadily moving toward the exit door. "Had to ask. That tends to be how these things go."

"What things?" How many witches had come calling on kings to lower bread taxes? Oh, nevermind. "I curse you, Louis-Philippe! May you live to be dependent upon those around you!"

With that, she turned the Citizen King into an orange tabby cat.

She had been planning for a gerbil.

Once again. Wolfsbane. Really should've been on sale this weekend.

The crown came to rest upon the cat's middle. The witch picked him up easily.

"I'll take that," she said, plucking the crown off of him.

"Mrowr?" said the Citizen King.

Oh, the plans that ran through the witch's mind were plentiful. She would make him use a litter box. She would smush up his face all cutely. She would talk to him as though he was some low-intelligent fuzzy-minded animal. She would make him eat the stale bread for food that she couldn't sell. She would dress him up in stupid sweaters.

She would...

She would remember that her landlady didn't allow for cats.

"There's always something," she sighed. "Always something in my way."

Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps it was destiny. Perhaps it was just a matter of circumstances, but she wasn't alone within that throne room. Well, apart from the cat and the dead guards. A young man had been hiding within one of the corners, dressed in dark gray and carrying several daggers. His hair may have been hidden, but she recognized those eyes.

It was the blond that frequented her shop to bitch about the prices more than she did.

"Oh, good. You're here. Sorry to foil the assassination attempt. I'm sure you would've done a crackerjack job at it. You may take him." She plunked the orange tabby, formerly the Citizen King, into the young man's arms. "Have a lovely day and remember to come see my shop on Tuesday! It's half-off on croissants!"

With that, she teleported away, leaving a revolutionary holding a mewling kitty who wanted little more than to be put down.

\--

"Are you sure that's the story you want to go with?" Combeferre asked. King Louis-Philippe lifted up one hind leg and started cleaning his nether regions. "Because I think that's a story that won't be taken seriously by anyone sober."

"I believe it!" Courfeyrac said. He sat across from Combeferre at their table, his chair turned back around with him straddling it.

"I rest my case."

"Look," Courfeyrac started, his hand straying to the cat's head. "You remember last Tuesday when Joly got up into yours and Enjolras' faces, ranting about how Bossuet had turned into a dildo?"

Combeferre didn't need a reminder of that particular debacle. Joly had frantically waved the phallus in front of them in a desperate attempt at trying to make them believe. If he shut his eyes, he could still see the damn thing wobbling back and forth. "That was different."

"You're right. It's Enjolras now telling us that this is our king. And I'm a bit more inclined to trust Enjolras than Joly."

"Thank you," Enjolras said quietly.

"Mainly because Enjolras won't ever try any hashish with me, so I know he's clean."

"As always, Courfeyrac, you are an insightful soul."

Combeferre rubbed his eyes while Enjolras continued.

"I wouldn't have believed it myself had I not been there to see it. She came. She slaughtered several guards. She turned the pear into a cat. My first thought was that she'd be excellent to have upon the barricades."

Courfeyrac kept himself from asking when the king would be a mineral next to complete the game.

Combeferre frowned. "And yet you still couldn't assassinate him?"

Enjolras looked shocked. "I wouldn't kill a defenseless cat! That would be cruel."

"But he's not a real cat. He's the king."

"Was the king," Courfeyrac added. "Now he's just a cat who's spending an inordinate amount of time licking his balls. Have to say, I can't blame him. I know many guys who if they were so limber-"

"Thank you, Courfeyrac," Combeferre interrupted. "Fine. So the king is now a cat. I'll just go along with this insane idea. What do we do with him? Clearly he can't very well run a nation."

"He couldn't do it when he was human either," Courfeyrac piped in. "So why not just treat him like a regular cat? Maybe put him out on the street? He can mate with another stray or something. Roam the docks for fish from the good-hearted workers there. Let him see what it's like living in- oh, how adorable that is!"

King Louis-Philippe had promptly rolled over onto his side and was looking at Courfeyrac beseechingly. Courfeyrac found it impossible to resist those big wide eyes. "You want belly rubs, little pear?"

Combeferre pushed his glasses back up onto the nonexistent bridge on his nose. "I think, perhaps, your idea is a sound one."

"No."

Enjolras had disagreed with Combeferre and Courfeyrac before, but rarely did he sound so adamant about it.

"No?" Combeferre asked.

"Who's a big fattie?" Courfeyrac asked. "You are!"

"No," Enjolras went on. "No, I am not releasing him out onto the streets. We're thinking about revenge upon a man. He is not a man. He is a cat. He thinks like a cat. He has a feline brain, feline...feelings. He wouldn't understand why we were dumping him to the cobblestones. He has no experience being a cat, let alone being a stray. He'd be killed quickly, or it would be a slow, lingering death of starvation."

"You think the king would show any such mercy on us?" Combeferre asked.

"Softie lumpkins!" Courfeyrac cooed.

"I think we should stop thinking of him as the king and start thinking of him as a cat for now. At least until we can get him turned back. Once reverted, well, he'd be in our territory. But until then, the innocent will be protected, be they man or-"

"Fattie fattie kitty!" Courfeyrac laughed as he picked up the tabby.

Combeferre, sensing that he'd be outvoted due to Courfeyrac's attachment issues and Enjolras' newly found policy on cats, just waved a hand in dismissal. "Courfeyrac and I will go see this so-called witch on Tuesday. In the meantime, what of the king?"

"I think the first thing to do is to separate the king from the cat. One identity cannot support the other." Enjolras nodded at the feline. "As such, from now on his name will be Fat Louis."

For the first time, Fat Louis didn't look so amused, though he calmed down significantly after the trio had drawn straws to see who would cater to his needs for the day. Enjolras had won, so the former Citizen King soon found himself tucked under the revolutionary's arm and brought home to an apartment that wasn't as lavish as what he was used to.

Usurping Enjolras' bed proved problematic in and of itself. It seemed the blond wasn't too keen on getting fur upon his sheet, but Fat Louis wasn't used to being denied.

Enjolras had never known a cat could whine for so long and at such a volume at his bedroom door.

In the end, Fat Louis had to be content with the foot of the bed while Enjolras sprawled out upon most of it.

Hopefully the witch could end this particular issue on Tuesday.

If not, maybe Courfeyrac would have an easier time of the little hellion.


End file.
